PSOH Four Shorts
by tigersilver
Summary: Leon and Count D, in four vignettes.


PET SHOP OF HORRORS Shorts

No Reservations

If he appeared to be hesitating, he wasn't. It was just that time had moved so very, very slowly for such a long time. He was caught in it, a cognizant spider in a treacley web of his own devising, and he found it agonizingly difficult to shift forward once again.

Only someone who loved him very well could have caught that slight pause – could have wondered, and feared, and been lost there, abandoned – his heart stopped, his breath snagged, his throat working soundless during the exquisitely small silence that fell between

"D!"

and

"Detective!"

Brand

D had taken to texting like a platypus to water.

Dr1, dprz!:)

Now that was all very well and good, but the door Leon was currently on the other side of did not feature convenience stores. Shit, he'd have to ask Ten.

fvr?DPRZ ASAP! DLVR

Twenty minutes later, his Motorola burbled the first few bars of _Tubular Bells_. Damn Chris for playing with his ringtones!

?:D Pmprz/Hgz???

FCK! ??? D!

SezUNO ~^_^~

His fingers hurt; the keypad was too damn small; the Shop should have this stuff in stock by now, by baby number three! And while he was spending a beautiful afternoon 'ffing texting, his 'effing fish dinner was getting away!

PMPRZ LRG SZ42lbs…DLVR PLZ?

Leo hauled his pole out of the sand and got back to work.

_Tubular Bells! Tubular Bells! Tubular—_

Shit!

U∞Leon

Awww…

U2

Armor

There was a 'snick' as D cinched the last buckle in place.

"Not very elegant, Detective."

_Is it strong enough? Will you need me? – I'll be there anyway, my darling Detective. I'll be watching over you, as I always do. _

"Nah. No need to look _good,_ D."

Standing before the huge beveled mirror in the Parlor, Leon finished smearing the last of the black grease paint under his gleaming blue eyes. He tugged the regulation shatter-proof helmet down just so, snapping on the two-way radio as he went, tightened his duty belt by one notch, and checked over all the other whiz-bang fastenings and space-age quick-release doodads one last time. Suited up, Detective Orcot looked vaguely like a contemporary Flash Gordon - or perhaps a Martian football player decked out for the 'big game' - but his particular brand of armor included a very Earthly Glock.

"Not for_ them_."

_Scum-of-the-earth bastards, these fucking drug lords, but I'll be fine; don't worry. This is completely routine, D. No need to get your panties in a twist -- I do this _allthe time_. _

"Still, Detective," and here the Count smiled cattily, pausing as his odd eyes skimmed over the bits-and-pieces still visible of Leon's usual scruffy jeans-and-a-T-shirt, now sweat-darkened from a miserably hot day spent undercover. D's nervous hands rose and then fell, patting down the plastic hinges on the neoprene-coated breastplate that covered up the T-shirt's brave yellow smiley face as if he didn't quite trust them. When he finally looked up, smiling even more brightly, his gold-and-amethyst gaze was wide in a smirking face.

"Still, _Leon_…your usual unwashed look suits you better. You barely even have to _try_ to blend in with the criminals."

_I'll be waiting for you. Stay safe and well, _my_ Detective. _

Leon knew for sure the Count hated these occasional night raids, even more than weekend ones Leon never told him about.

"Asshole….Uh, I mean, thanks, D. I guess. For the help, I mean. You know."

Gloved hands waving, Leon shooed all these stupid worries away. Time to get moving.

_I'll be back. You can bet your precious Shop on it, baby - just trust me!_

"But of course, Detective. _Anything_ I can do to encourage our brave men in blue."

"Uh, right."

Leon flushed hotly under his greasepaint for no reason whatsoever and then nodded meaningfully toward the street, where an equally armored Jill was patiently waiting.

He had to leave _now_ or the Chief would have his ass in a sling, no lie! Damn D for—for…well, whatever he was doing that made Leon so, um. Yeah.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Well, hey, see you around, right?."

A fast peck on the corner of that red mouth; an affectionate ruffle through the night-black silk; a concerted clanking rush to the exit. Leon jittered on the doorstep, totally last minute, one foot out and one foot in.

_I love you, baby! It'll be okay, I swear!_

"…Yes," the Count smiled, and Leon could've sworn D had just winked the purple eye insouciantly. "Me, too, Detective."

_You had _better_ be, Leon Addison Orcot, or I'll know the reason why!_

But Detective Orcot, LAPD, literally had no more time available to explore this weird conversation he and D were having – his comm was crackling fiercely inside his helmet, Chief yammering in one ear and Dispatch in the other, and his dear old best bitch Jill was leaning nastily on the car horn.

_Be careful, Leon!_

Long after the police cruiser was but a fading rotating afterglow in the distance, the Pet Shop's prim-and-proper owner sagged against the sturdy teak doorframe and shut his mismatched eyes with a wistful sigh.

Still Life

The question was not how he ended up here again, damn it. He _knew_ that – he'd practically seen the bullet, or at least its trajectory, but far too late to do anything constructive about it. The question was not _why _or _how _or _who _injured him. No, his concern was as a police officer, who knew damned well all the fucking rules and regulations of L.A. General's Intensive Care Unit.

How in the hell had D managed to get in here – and for that matter, Chris and T-chan and Pon-chan, too? Where the fuck were the bonzo nurses and ham-handed orderlies, the ones who kept weird people like Count D safely outside _his _hospital room?

Worse than that, why'd he hafta' be so goddamned happy to see him?


End file.
